


every king on his lonely throne

by brawlite



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: (or maybe actually a little homo after all), Alcohol, Ambiguity, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bad Decisions, Billy Hargrove Is Bad at Feelings, Comfort Sex, Drunk Sex, Dubious Consent, Exactly What It Says on the Tin, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mild Misogyny, Self-Hatred, Unhappy/Ambiguous Ending, Unrequited Love, how can it be a bad decision if it feels so good?, no homo tho, tommy h. isn't actually world's worst friend, two boys being sad and dumb
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:35:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22501075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brawlite/pseuds/brawlite
Summary: “Close your eyes,” Tommy says. “Pretend I'm him.”
Relationships: One-Sided Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington, One-Sided Tommy H./Steve Harrington, Tommy H./Billy Hargrove
Comments: 39
Kudos: 268





	every king on his lonely throne

“Close your eyes,” Tommy says. “Pretend I'm him.”

The denial is immediate and bitter, right on the tip of his tongue. But there's something about Tommy's face, about the openness of his expression, that has Billy swallowing that taste down like bile, past a hard lump in his throat. Something that keeps him from throwing that first punch.

“You know you wanna,” Tommy tells him. “Don't even try to lie.”

What Tommy doesn't say is why there's a thread of sadness in his own voice, an undercurrent of understanding, plain and simple and sour. Billy doesn't have to ask. King Steve’s thrall is wide, and his reach is impressive. Tommy’s known Steve for ten times longer than Billy has, and, like Billy, has probably been enchanted by him since they day they first met. Enchanted, and then treated like a dog. Abandoned and kicked away, whenever something shinier came along.

So, Billy doesn't ask, and he doesn't fight it, either. Because what Tommy’s offering? It's something that hits him cold in the gut, makes the heartache worse in the best kind of way. Like picking a scab, like digging fingers into a bruise. Calloused fingertips pulling at stitches that are too new to untie. It's a rush, a thrill, something that takes cold hands and pries his rib cage right open, then and there, before breathing hot air all over the gaping cavity within.

Billy doesn't say _okay_ , and he doesn't say _fine_ , and he definitely doesn't say _please_. He doesn't ask if Tommy’ll be picturing Steve in his mind’s eye, too, because he knows the answer. Knows it like he knows the map of veins on the back of his own hands (like he knows the pattern of moles on Steve's cheeks, his neck).

Instead, he just lets his eyes fall closed, eyelids fluttering against the dim light of Tommy’s childhood bedroom. It smells like smoke. Like the bottomshelf vodka that they've been sharing. It smells like Tommy, like sweat and musk and the spicy soap Tommy’s been using since high school and probably before.

“Yeah, that's it,” Tommy says.

He should really shut his trap. It'll ruin the illusion, Billy thinks. But he doesn't voice that past the knot in his throat. He just lets the following silence hang in the air like a reply and lets the twist of a frown on his face speak volumes for him.

Either Tommy gets it or he doesn't. Only time will tell. It won’t really matter, either way.

Billy can feel shifting movement next to him. The bed dips, Tommy takes a stuttering, shaking breath -- and then Tommy's straddling him. Thick thighs on either side of Billy's, pressing, holding him down against Tommy's hard, lumpy mattress. His bedspread is plaid, just like Steve’s, because they do everything together, because they’re every way like each other, except in all of the important ways they’re not.

He can smell the alcohol on Tommy’s breath, as those plump lips of his just barely graze over Billy’s mouth. Over his jaw. Near enough to Billy’s ear that he almost shivers at the gentle huff of an exhale. Tommy doesn’t quite kiss, or lick, or do much of anything at all at first. He’s just exploring the playing field -- maybe even giving Billy a chance to back out, like _that’s_ something Billy would ever be caught doing, running home with his tail between his legs.

Billy leans back a little, just to give Tommy more room to explore, offering up that white flag of invitation. Going belly-up.

Instantly, Tommy eats up the ground Billy just ceded. He finally gets the wet heat of his mouth on Billy’s neck -- not stupid enough to actually put his lips somewhere Billy could _bite_ them, like the rabid thing he is -- and gets to work.

To ground himself, and maybe to keep Tommy steady, Billy’s hands move from the soft comforter to the meat of Tommy’s thighs. His fingers dig into the mesh of the basketball shorts Tommy’s wearing, the shorts that he _still_ wears, even though he hasn’t played basketball in a couple of years.

With his eyes closed, Tommy could be anyone. With his eyes closed, with messy hair tickling his jaw, Tommy could easily be Steve.

He’s not, though.

There’s no way Billy can convince himself that it’s Steve’s slender fingers pulling Billy’s shirt up and over his head with undeserved confidence. And when Tommy drags his calloused fingertips over Billy’s nipples to play with his tits, it’s impossible to imagine pristine Steve Harrington doing the same.

To his credit, Tommy doesn’t give Billy shit when Tommy’s fingers drag an unexpected sound out from the back of Billy’s throat. It’s embarrassing, so loud in the silence of Tommy’s bedroom, but Tommy stays quiet about it, lips shut. He just keeps going, keeps touching, pinching at Billy’s nipples until he’s sure they’re bright red, until he’s almost afraid to look. He traces over Billy’s ribs with rough hands, until Billy’s mouth is watering, until his jeans start to feel uncomfortable against the weight of Tommy holding him down, against the heaviness of his touch. Tommy’s not gentle about it, but he’s not mean, either. Just firm, _easy_. Like he knows what he’s doing with those freckled fingers of his.

Billy’s never asked, if Tommy’s ever, with a guy before.

Tommy’s never asked, either.

Tommy doesn’t ask Billy aloud to lean back against the bed, but the careful way Tommy presses at his shoulders tells him loud enough.

For a second, as Tommy starts pulling at his clothes, Billy tries to imagine again that he’s with Steve. That he’s on Steve’s giant bed, in that dark room of his, with Steve deliberately stripping him of his clothes. It’s an easy enough fantasy to lose himself in, because Billy _has_ stretched himself out across Steve’s bed before, luxuriating in the comfort of it, the warmth. He’s lost himself in the deep and earthy scent of Steve, face buried in the pillows while Steve and Tommy had fetched more liquor from downstairs. It’s such a visceral thing, that memory of his; Billy doesn’t find it hard to step right back into it, goose-down comforter fluffy underneath him, the taste of expensive liquor on his tongue. _The lap of luxury_ , Billy had called it, stretched out in that bed, when the two of them had gotten back with liquor. All he had to do was go on about how King Steve lived it up in this castle of his, and no one had been the wiser.

Well. Maybe Tommy had been.

Not that Billy’s really _lost_ anything out of that revelation, like he had thought he might.

Because soon Tommy’s touching him again, climbing back onto the bed -- naked, from the feel of it -- and slotting himself in between Billy’s spread legs.

Tommy doesn’t ask what’s fine or what he wants. He probably figures Billy’ll punch him if he does something Billy doesn’t like. He’s not wrong.

But there’s probably nothing, right now, that Tommy could do that Billy wouldn’t be down for. He _wants_ , desperate and aching, in a way that he’s not sure Tommy’ll be able to scratch -- but Billy’s more than willing to let him try. Drunk, Billy’s more pliable than normal. Drunk, he’s ready to let go of all the shit he holds so close to his chest.

Surprisingly, Tommy doesn’t just spread Billy’s legs and go for it.

Instead, and with absolutely no warning, there’s suddenly warm heat swallowing Billy down. Tommy’s mouth, wet and clever, takes him in with little hesitation. Billy groans, caught by the slap of surprise and dazed by just how _good_ it feels. Tommy doesn’t even shush him, even though Billy knows he probably shouldn’t be quite so loud. No one’s home, but those are chances Billy never actually wants to take.

Tommy’s tongue is skilled and his mouth is hot. He leaves Billy panting, wanting, desperate, fingers clutching at the sheets. He thinks, for a minute, of sinking his fingers into Tommy’s hair. It’d ruin the illusion -- Tommy’s hair is shorter than Steve’s. But does it really matter? It’s not like Billy’s trying real hard to imagine Steve right now, with his lips around Billy’s cock, choking him down. It’s too difficult to imagine, other than the vague outline of it. He keeps getting caught up on little things, too easily remembering that it’s Tommy giving this to him, with his pouty lips and his clever, surprisingly skilled touches.

So, Billy buries his fingers into Tommy’s hair and _tugs_. He yanks at it until Tommy’s moaning around his dick, uses it as leverage to get Tommy to gag a little when he takes Billy too deep, drool probably starting to drip down his chin with just how messy it’s getting.

And now there’s really no real use in pretending it’s Steve with his lips on Billy, because Tommy sounds too much like himself when he moans. A little whiny, a little happy. Deep and low and hungry, too. Nothing like Steve, who would be too repressed to let himself enjoy something debauched like this. So, it’s definitely Tommy moaning around Billy’s dick, definitely Tommy pushing Billy’s legs wider and wider with his hands on the soft flesh of Billy’s thighs.

It’s less of a surprise when Tommy pulls off with a wet sound and starts pressing into Billy with spit-slick fingers.

Billy lets him, for a while. It feels good, being filled up like this, a little rough and a little dry, with Tommy’s palm flat over the jut of Billy’s hip, holding him down like Billy’s liable to squirm away. He lets it continue until Tommy tries to push in a third finger after hocking more spit onto his hand.

He kicks at Tommy’s shin with his heel and says, “Lube, you fucking heathen.”

He knows it breaks their unspoken rule, shattering the idea for Tommy,too, that Billy could be Steve -- but he’s not letting Tommy fuck him without lube. Not today, anyway. He doesn’t want that kind of aching bite of pain, doesn’t need it right now.

Tommy doesn’t fight him. He’s a smart guy.

His fingers pull out and then the bed shifts, Tommy’s warmth leaving him empty and a little cold. There’s the slam of a drawer to Billy’s left, and some rummaging. Then, the bed depresses once more, and Tommy’s clumsily climbing over him with bony knees, popping the cap to a bottle as he goes.

When two fingers press into Billy again, Billy can’t stop the “Holy _shit_ ,” he breathes out on a desperate gasp. It feels so _good_ , so easy and so slick. He hears Tommy laugh a little, but it’s not mean. It’s a bright sound, full of warmth and heat. Like maybe Tommy’s just as turned on as Billy is, just as hard and leaking against his stomach.

This time, when Tommy starts pushing three fingers in, Billy lets him. It’s a tight fit, but made so much easier by the lube. Tommy’s surprisingly gentle about it, but there would be nothing surprising about him and Carol doing this on the regular, her talking him through it, telling him to _be gentle and go slow_. There’s nothing hesitant about his touch -- he just pushes in, firm, until he’s filling Billy to the knuckle, until Billy’s keening, fingers back in Tommy’s hair and tugging mercilessly.

Inside Billy, Tommy’s fingers twist. One curl and Billy’s sees stars pockmarking the darkness on the back of his lids. He curses, bucks, groans with it, louder than he should, _enjoying_ it more than he should.

“ _Please_ ,” he’s saying, before he can remember that Billy Hargrove doesn’t beg. He wouldn’t beg for Steve, and he certainly wouldn’t beg for _Tommy_. But the words are out there forever now, ringing in his ears.

Tommy, perhaps smartly, doesn’t ridicule him for it, though there’s always the chance he will later. When he looks back on this and smells Billy on his sheets, maybe he’ll laugh himself silly at the idea that someone like Tommy H. had Billy Hargrove all strung out and pleading like some desperate slut.

All Billy gets is an exhaled curse as Tommy’s fingers leave him, as Tommy likely watches as his hole clenches at the loss. It probably looks sick as hell, Billy all stretched out and red, dripping with lube like Tommy made him this wet. It’s depraved as fuck, imagining himself like that, already fucked out, even though Tommy’s dick isn’t even _in_ him, yet. It sends a spike of heat through him, a bead of precome dribbling out from the tip of his cock.

“Hurry the fuck _up_ ,” Billy says.

Tommy slaps at Billy’s thigh. It feels like a well-punctuated _fuck you_. Tommy’s dedication to not ruining the illusion is impressive, especially given that Billy’s not so great at playing pretend. Sure, it’d be nice to get Steve between his thighs like this, but _that’s_ never gonna happen, and Billy’s brain knows it. But he can pretend to pretend, anyway. For Tommy. Might as well.

The weight on the bed shifts again as Tommy pushes forward, settling himself better between Billy’s legs. He grabs at the backs of Billy’s thighs and pushes them up, lifting until Billy is spread wide and open underneath him.

Then, one of Tommy’s hands lets go, likely to grip himself at the base -- because then there’s the flat head of something slick pushing into him, and all of Billy’s breath forcefully exits his lungs.

Tommy’s not a huge guy -- isn’t packing a monster in his pants like Steve -- but he’s big enough that he feels he has to go slow with it, easing himself inside Billy inch by inch. Really, he doesn’t _have_ to go so easy, because Billy’s not going to break, but every time Billy squirms and tries to work Tommy in faster, Tommy just huffs out a laugh and spreads his palm out over the hard plane of Billy’s abs and coaxes him into stillness.

 _Fine_ , Billy thinks. If Tommy wants to take his time, he can take his time.

But when Billy reaches down to take his cock in hand and alleviate some of the pressure, Tommy just swats his fingers away.

Billy grunts, but he doesn’t get a chance to complain because with one final push, Tommy’s all the way in him, bottoming out and filling Billy up. Distracting him completely. Tommy ruts into him then, dragging a moan straight out from the bottom of Billy’s lungs. He feels so full, so warm, so used.

This time, when Billy squirms and bucks, Tommy laughs and gives him what he wants: more.

Tommy’s cock slides nearly all the way out of Billy, wet and slick with what must be extra lube, and then shoves back in again to the hilt. It knocks Billy’s breath away and has him groaning cursing, grasping at the sheets.

It feels like heaven when Tommy starts fucking into him in earnest, all long thrusts and firm movements. Billy arcs his back up and off the sheets when Tommy lifts his thighs up even more, and the change in angle makes all the difference.

“Holy _fuck_ ,” Billy gets out, but only barely.

With every thrust, Tommy’s dick’s brushing up against that spot that makes him sing. Behind his eyelids, fireworks spark with every wave of pleasure. His heart beats so loud in his ears that Billy can barely hear his own moans. It feels so good, Tommy filling him up and giving it to him hard, dragging out the pleasure by breaking Billy down so perfectly, with a pace that’s not too fast, not too slow.

It’s so brutally perfect.

Which is why he doesn’t know _why_ he opens his eyes, but he does.

He expects to catch a glimpse Tommy with his eyes closed, too. Expects to see him lost in some desperate fantasy where he’s got pretty Steve Harrington right where he wants him, spread out on his bed, wanting and desperate.

Instead, what he gets is this: Tommy’s dark eyes are caught on Billy and Billy alone. He’s watching in fascination as his cock slides in, as Billy’s body opens up and yields to him. Billy catches a flash of Tommy’s white teeth biting into the pink pout of his lower lip. Concentrating. Sweat drips down the flushed swath of freckles on Tommy’s forehead, his cheeks, his neck. He glistens with the effort.

He looks absolutely wrecked, debauched -- and it’s all because of Billy.

“Harder,” Billy says, and Tommy’s eyes snap to his face.

He doesn’t flinch, when he realizes that Billy’s looking right at him, but it’s a near thing, because he does slow down, like maybe he’s been caught in the act. Cautious.

“Are you _deaf?”_ Billy says, even though his tone makes the words sound more like _please_ than anything. He covers it up by continuing to talk, grabbing at a tone that’s a little harsher, a little more biting. “Fuck me _harder_.” It’s definitely not a request that time.

“ _Shit_ ,” Tommy breathes out. He looks -- and sounds -- like Billy just punched him right in the belly.

But at least he _does it_.

His hips snap and he drives in hard. Billy’s eyes flutter closed at the shock of pleasure from the movement, but he wrenches them back open again to keep _watching_. Because there’s something gripping about watching Tommy like this, body flushed and sweaty, fucking into Billy like his life depends on it. He’s working hard for it, abs straining underneath the softness of his stomach, arms flexing with the effort of holding up Billy’s thighs.

It’s hot as fuck, in all honesty.

Tommy’s a pretty quiet guy in bed -- or at least he has been. But now that he’s fucking Billy harder, now that his eyes are caught on Billy’s in a desperate knot of eye-contact, it’s like he can’t shut up.

And Billy _would_ make fun of him, he really _would_ , but hearing Tommy moan like that, without restraint and absolutely desperate? It sends a shock of heat straight through Billy’s chest.

He arches up, reaching, _wanting,_ and gasps out something halfways between a curse and a plea. Tommy must get the jist of it, because in a second there are rough fingers wrapping around Billy’s cock, stroking him off to the time of Tommy’s thrusts.

The heat builds fast, aided now by the quickness of Tommy’s fist. It nearly hurts, just how good it feels, how quickly it spikes. Tommy groans, twisting his fist as he thumbs over the head of Billy’s dick with a touch that should be clumsy but _isn’t --_ god, it _isn’t_ \-- and then Billy’s coming, spilling himself into Tommy’s fist with a bitten-off shout.

The pleasure of it is heady rush, overpowering enough that Billy has to close his eyes to it -- which means he misses the face Tommy makes when he comes, because he follows Billy right over the edge only a moment later. He’s quiet when he does, his whole body going stiff as he shoots off, driving in deep.

He slumps forward afterwards, panting. He doesn’t _quite_ fall on top of Billy, but it’s a near thing, lying on his forearms over Billy’s body, dick still filling Billy up even as it softens inside him.

“Shit, that was _something_ ,” Tommy says. He sounds as exhausted as Billy feels. As fucked-out and still caught in the waves of it, too.

“Yeah,” Billy says.

His eyes are still closed, and he doesn’t want to open them quite yet. Doesn’t want to face the harsh reality of having to clean himself up, of having to justify this, between the two of them, into something palatable.

Right now, Billy feels sated. Spent. Like Tommy reached right inside him and scratched that itch Billy couldn’t possibly scratch before, the one he didn’t think Tommy had a chance of alleviating. He feels _good_ right now, even though he’s already burning through the last wisps of it, grasping at that pleasant feeling, trying to hold onto it.

Eventually, though, Tommy pulls out, and Billy can already taste the sour denial at the back of his throat.

He doesn’t talk as he rolls off Tommy’s bed and slips into the little bathroom next to Tommy’s room to clean up as fast as he can. He avoids the mirror, afraid of who he’ll see in it, but clinically scrubs himself down with a washcloth that he immediately washes off, wads up, and tosses into the laundry basket in the corner. No evidence left; no harm, no foul.

The house is still dark, but Billy puts his clothes back on fast when he gets back to Tommy’s room. He feels wobbly -- half from the booze and half from the sex, but he’s dressed under worse conditions before.

“We still got vodka,” Tommy says, when Billy grabs the first of his shoes.

He’s wearing clothes again. Like maybe that’ll hide what they’ve done. Like maybe it never happened at all.

“Yeah?” Billy asks, freezing in the middle of Tommy’s room, stooped over and trying to wrestle one of his shoes on. He’s still damp from the washcloth and his hair is probably a wreck. Like this, he’s nothing like the Billy Hargrove Tommy first met back in high school. Then again, Tommy isn’t exactly who Billy met back in high school, either.

“You don’t gotta --” Tommy says, even though they both know that Billy _should_.

Tommy grabs at the bottle of vodka anyway. Shakes it in Billy’s direction. The bedside light catches on it, makes it reflect light back onto Tommy’s freckled face. He grins, wide and hopeful, eyebrows raised.

There _is_ at least half a bottle left.

It’d be a waste not to at least _try_ to finish it.

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote 3/4 of this in an insomniatic, painkiller-fueled haze a few days after surgery. 
> 
> title from murder by death's _rumbrave_.
> 
> as always, any comments or kudos would make my day. 
> 
> i'm on [twitter](https://twitter.com/brawlite) and [tumblr](http://brawlite.tumblr.com), if you are so inclined.


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